Page 46 of Shea's Hero

Shea’s slurred voice on the phone, broken by hitching sobs as she begged me to help her.

The clutching fear of knowing she was in trouble and not being there.

The feeling of absolute helplessness as I sped to her house, not knowing if I’d get there in time.

Those terrifying minutes when I didn’t know if she had been hurt. Taken. Or if she was even alive.

Then seeing my Shea sprawled out on the bathroom floor, unconscious, with bruises in the shape of large fingers marking her cheeks and jaw.

Waiting for her to wake up. Praying.

Fuck.

I thought I knew fear. But in the fifteen minutes it took to get from Sleepy Hollow to White Plains, I really learned what it means.

I could have lost the only woman I’ve ever truly loved.

And I wasn’t there to protect her. My brave Shea had to face it on her own.

Now that I know what happened—she told me everything in the hospital once the drugs had worn off—I’m even more in awe of her. I saw the footage on her doorbell camera, that piece of shit fake delivery guy with his crappy disguise, how he grabbed Shea and manhandled her inside. I saw how much bigger he was than her. How it should have been impossible to fight back.

But Shea managed the impossible. She got him out of her house and made it to safety.

I’m so proud of her.

And I’m also furious. Not at Shea, of course, but this fucked up situation.

She shouldn’t have had to fight for her life right in her own house. Right on her own damn doorstep. Shea did everything right—checking the cameras and the tracking info for the delivery, even grabbing the pepper spray before answering the door.

How could she have ever expected the delivery man would be a fraud?

That’s not something Shea should even have to consider.Ishould have thought of it. Should have warned her. And if not me, why not Niall? Or Cole? There are dozens of trained professionals involved in Shea’s case, and not one of them, myself included, prepared for this kind of attack.

I should have protected her better.

Dammit.

We’ve only been back together—are we together? In my mind we are—for less than a week and I already failed her. Again.

Midway through my latest circuit around the living room, I pause next to the couch to look at the arrangement of pillows. They’re all perfectly lined up except for one that’s cockeyed andrumpled, probably from one of the many people crowding Shea’s house just a few hours ago.

Moving the pillow into its proper position, I eyeball it, then give it a little karate chop, just like Shea and Maya do. Not only does it make the pillow look nicer, it’s also surprisingly therapeutic. Maybe not as satisfying as punching a wall, which is what I’d really like to do, but it’s better than nothing.

It also has the added benefit of being quiet, and since Shea is sleeping in the bedroom right now, that’s a definite plus. After a brief hesitation, I chop the pillow again, this time putting some muscle into it.

Then I decide to do the rest of them, just for good measure.

Just as I’m thwacking the last pillow, I hear a softly amused, “Oll? Did the pillows do something to you?”

Spinning around, I find Shea standing in the living room doorway, her lips curved into a tiny smile. If my gaze could stop straying to the bruises on her face, I’d be able to appreciate how cute she looks—hair in tousled waves, eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep, and a tiny crease across her cheek. She’s wearing shorts and an oversized T-shirt that saysAtlantic Cityon it, which I recognize from our trip there five years ago.

My anger subsides, quickly replaced by a rush of pleasure.

She kept it.

Just like the little mementos on her bookshelves, Shea kept the shirt I bought her. Not just kept it, but had it somewhere in a dresser, close enough to grab it whenever she wants.

“Oliver?” Humor shifts to concern as Shea walks towards me. “I was just kidding about the pillows.”

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